


of all the coffee joints in all the towns in all the world

by wincechesters



Series: 30 Day Cheesy Tropes Challenge [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 30 Day Cheesy Tropes Challenge, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Canon-Typical Violence, Human Castiel, Hunter Dean, M/M, not your average coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 09:16:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2104086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wincechesters/pseuds/wincechesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They meet in a coffee shop, though not exactly the way you’d expect. In fact, nothing about Dean Winchester is what Castiel expects, especially when he claims to hunt the supernatural. In spite of Dean’s outrageous claims and Castiel’s firm belief that he is either lying, insane, or in a constant state of intoxication, they wind up in a somewhat unorthodox relationship, and Castiel finds himself being forcefully thrown into a world of demons and vampires and all manner of things that go bump in the night.</p><p>For the <a href="http://wincechesters.tumblr.com/tagged/30-day-cheesy-tropes-challenge">30 Day Cheesy Tropes Challenge</a> #1 - Coffee Shop AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	of all the coffee joints in all the towns in all the world

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a fill for the cheesy tropes challenge and it was supposed to be super fluffy and cute, as coffee shop AUs generally are. It wound up being a bit more intense and angsty than I had originally intended, but I'm pretty pleased with how it came out nonetheless! I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Thanks to my beloved [Meg](http://myplaceofgreatestsafety.tumblr.com/) for betaing as always. Come talk to me on [tumblr](http://wincechesters.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Warnings for casual ableist language, canon-typical violence and minor descriptions of blood and injuries.

Castiel moves around easily behind the counter of the little coffee shop, automatically shutting down machines and wiping down counters as he goes. It had been a busy night for one staff member but he loves those nights, when he can lose himself in the mechanical motions of brewing coffee and foaming milk and pouring in sickly-sweet syrups. On nights like these, he’s too busy to be expected to make small talk with the customers beyond cursory greetings and polite smiles, and he doesn’t have to watch the hours of yet another evening not spent writing tick fruitlessly by.

The street outside the glass door is dark, lit only by a flickering streetlamp at the street corner in front of the nearby flower shop. It will be nearly eleven pm by the time he makes it home, bone-tired and weary from eight hours of being on his feet, bookended by a thirty minute walk to and from his shabby apartment.

His brother Inias had offered him the spare bedroom in his home on multiple occasions, but Castiel has been as yet too proud to accept. The idea of living as a perpetual third-wheel with Inias and his wife Rachel is reason enough for him to say no, though perhaps it won’t be if the trade-off is being unable to feed himself. If his sister Hannah lived in town he would consider sharing accommodations with her, but she still has two years left in her Masters degree before she will consider moving home. So for now he’s stuck serving coffee to the masses and trudging home to a run-down apartment to stare at a blank computer screen.

Castiel sighs as he wipes down the steam wands of the barista. He’s grateful for this job; being an out-of-work, as yet unpublished fiction writer isn’t exactly a promising career, and if he wants to remain with a roof over his head that isn’t shared by his brother and sister-in-law, he needs the income, as small as it may be. He finds himself wishing that he had more marketable skills, had perhaps not wasted his life and all his savings on an English degree that would, inevitably, get him nowhere but here.

The bell above the shop door chimes gleefully as the door bursts open, and Castiel has a momentary flare of irritation at himself and the intruder. Apparently he’d forgotten to lock the door when he flipped the sign to ‘CLOSED’; it wouldn’t be the first time, and he’s sure it won’t be the last.

“I’m sorry, we’re closed,” he says, glancing up dismissively, expecting the person to apologize and retreat, as they normally do once they’ve realized their mistake. Castiel’s gaze lands on a tall, broad-shouldered man, chest heaving with exertion and pink-faced from running, who instead of heading right back out the way he came, pulls a tube of what appears to be table salt from an inner pocket of his jacket and proceeds to pour a line of it across the doorway.

Castiel blinks, too dumbfounded by the man’s actions to form an appropriate protest. The man returns the salt to his pocket and reaches up to do what Castiel had forgotten, turning the deadbolt to the lock position as he peers out through the glass, looking first one way down the street and then the other.

Only then does he turn to face Castiel as if noticing him for the first time, his eyes turning speculative, and Castiel stares back, his gaze hard as he rakes his eyes over the intruder. The man’s eyes are green, bright against the flush staining his sculpted cheekbones, and his hair is short and light brown, dampened with sweat and mussed from exertion. He’s wearing a worn, brown leather jacket open over a black t-shirt, a strange gold pendant resting against his chest.

Only then does Castiel notice the shotgun, clenched tight in one large hand.

“We’re closed,” Castiel says again, his voice surprisingly level given how his insides are churning, his gaze drawn to the weapon held so easily in the man’s hand.

The stranger laughs. “Sorry pal, I’m not a customer. I just need to hang out in here for a couple minutes.”

“Are you running from the law?” Castiel blurts without thinking, wondering if he is brave or just very, very stupid.

The man raises incredulous eyebrows. “Dude, you know any police officers that are freaked out by salt?” He waves a hand at the line of white he’s sprinkled at the door.

Castiel feels his brow furrow and before he can stop himself, he’s asking, “Who _would_ be afraid of a line of salt?”

“Not who,” the man replies, glancing once more out the door before advancing towards the counter. “What.” He stops at the counter, leaning up against it as though he belongs there, turning his body to face halfway towards the door. He places the shotgun on the counter, his broad hand resting protectively over it, and Castiel swallows around a dry throat as he stares at it, unable to tear his eyes away.

“I—there’s no money in the register,” Castiel tries. “I already deposited it all in the safe and I can’t get it out once it’s there. I don’t have the combination.”

The man scoffs. “I don’t want your money—” he peers at the name tag pinned to Castiel’s black polo shirt—“ _Castiel.”_ He pronounces the name slowly and grimaces. “What the hell kinda name is _Castiel_?”

“The one I was given,” Castiel retorts. “And I am hardly an expert on social conventions but even I understand that it’s rude to burst into a closed place of business and seek sanction and then mock the names of the employees without even supplying one of your own.”

The man snorts, then pauses to study Castiel, considering. Finally he shrugs and holds out his free hand. “The name’s Dean,” he says.

“Dean.” Castiel tastes the name and hesitantly clasps the man’s hand in his own. “I would say it’s good to meet you but as I appear to be your hostage, I don’t think I will.”

Dean throws back his head and laughs. “No sweat, Cas,” he says easily. “But you’re not a hostage. I just need to hang out for a bit. You can keep closing up, don’t mind me.” He waves a hand at the machine Castiel had been cleaning before he’d been interrupted.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Castiel says, eyeing the shotgun under Dean’s hand warily. He wonders if he could get the weapon away from Dean, demand that he leave—

Dean follows Castiel’s gaze and sighs, his grip tightening on the firearm. “Don’t even think about it, dude. I don’t wanna hurt you, but if you try anything stupid, I’ll knock you out.” He says it so baldly, so nonchalant, that Castiel knows instinctively that he’s not bluffing. And judging by the easy calm, the broad shoulders and big, sure hands, he thinks it likely that he could follow through on the threat.

Castiel leans back against the back counter and crosses his arms over his chest. “What did you say you were hiding from?”

“I didn’t,” Dean says, grinning. “And you wouldn’t believe me even if I did tell you.” He turns to shoot a quick glance over his shoulder at the door behind him as if expecting to see whoever—or whatever—had been pursuing him waiting outside the door.

Castiel raises skeptical eyebrows. “Really.”

“Yes, really.”

“Then it couldn’t hurt to tell me, could it?”

Dean surveys him, the expression in his green eyes somewhere between amused and interested. “Touché.” He leans forward over the counter towards Castiel, full lips quirking into a sardonic smile. When he speaks his voice is low, as though he’s sharing some kind of thrilling secret.

“I’m hiding from demons.”

“Demons,” Castiel repeats, his voice deadpan.

Dean nods. “Yep. Walked right into a trap and I was outnumbered. Too many to take on at once so I beat it out of there to find somewhere to lay low until my back-up gets his lazy ass to town.”

“I see,” Castiel says, nodding his understanding. “You’re insane.”

“Nope, sorry.”

“Drunk? High?”

“Man, I wish,” Dean replies fervently, pushing away from the counter to check the door again, then pacing around the little shop. He picks up a mug from the display shelf in the corner and turns it over, grimacing at the price tag before replacing it gingerly.

“All right, in the interest of simplicity, I’ll play along. How long will you need to hide from the—uh—demons?”

Dean pulls out his phone and glances at the blank screen before shoving it grumpily back into his pocket. “As long as it takes for my geek brother to come bail me out. Those black-eyed sons of bitches might’ve followed me here, might even be waiting out there right now. They can’t cross the salt so we’re safe in here but I don’t wanna risk going out there until Sam comes with my ride.” The look Dean shoots Castiel over the one pound bag of coffee he’s currently smelling is almost apologetic. “Could be a while, man.”

Castiel stares at the stranger before him, thinking fast. Castiel is not a small man but Dean has a couple inches on him and several pounds of muscle at least. The man has every advantage, from the weapon in his hand to his superior size to the ready grace with which he carries himself that speaks of experience with firearms and in combat. There’s also the air of danger that hangs over him and the cut in his full bottom lip that speaks to a rough encounter that Dean obviously escaped, demons or no demons.

But in spite of everything, the man hadn’t done anything to hurt Castiel, and he’d certainly had the opportunity. In fact, aside from the salt that Castiel would have to vacuum up before he leaves for the night, Dean hadn’t even done anything to upset the shop, either.

“In that case,” Castiel finds himself blurting out, “would you like a coffee?”

Dean looks up at him sharply, then barks a surprised laugh, putting down the bag of coffee beans and crossing to perch at one of the stools under the counter. “Yeah, sure, man. Thanks.”

* * *

Castiel wakes the next morning to his alarm blaring cheerfully and seriously contemplates the merits of calling in sick. He groans and buries his head under his pillow to dull the obnoxious sounds blaring from the tinny speakers, remembering the reason he’d gotten in so late in the first place, the reason he’d only managed five hours of sleep.

It had been past midnight by the time the shiny black muscle car had rumbled up outside the shop, and he and Dean had long ago lost their stiff postures, leaning onto the same counter and sipping coffee. They talked idly of Castiel’s job at the shop and his thus far failed attempts at becoming a writer, and Dean’s thrilling, no doubt imagined responsibility as a hunter of all things evil. Leaning so close together, Castiel had smelled the sweat and gun oil lingering on his skin, the worn leather of the jacket over his shoulders. He could count the freckles scattered across Dean’s cheeks and see the spokes of gold threaded through the green in his eyes. And unless he was mistaken, Castiel thought the man’s eyes had been lingering longer on him in turn, studying Castiel’s lips and hands when they moved against the countertop.

But then the car had rolled to a stop, the engine’s low growl audible even from inside, and Dean had pushed himself slowly to his feet. “Well guess this is it, Cas,” he had said, flicking his fingers towards Castiel in a lazy, smirking salute and slapping a rumpled ten dollar bill down on the counter. “Thanks for the coffee. And for putting up with my sorry ass.” And Castiel had watched with some amusement as Dean had strode through the door and forced a man—presumably the brother, Sam—out of the driver’s seat of the car and over to the passenger side so he himself could drive.

By the time Castiel had finished cleaning up the shop, having gotten nothing done while Dean was sitting at the counter with him, it had been nearly two in the morning. The hours spent talking with Dean had flown by, but he certainly felt them by the time he’d stumbled into his apartment at 2:45, collapsing fully dressed on top of his bed and promptly passing out.

Now he stumbles to his feet and drags himself to the kitchen, starting a pot of coffee before making his way to the shower. He turns the water up hotter than normal, letting the hot stream wash over him and trying not to think of a green-eyed, leather-clad stranger named Dean as he scrubs his body clean. But once the thought is in his mind it’s difficult to let go, his body responding eagerly to the memory of Dean’s bright, mischievous smirk and the perfect symmetry of his handsome face, the broad shoulders under the worn leather. Castiel reaches down to stroke himself, remembering the man’s rangy grace, the broad palms and thick fingers, the way he’d licked his lips to chase a bit of foam from the latte Castiel had made for him.

Castiel comes with a gasp over his fist and slumps shakily against the cool tile wall of the shower, wondering when he became a man who fantasized about beautiful strangers who broke into coffee shops and claimed to hunt things that can’t possibly exist.

* * *

Castiel’s shift starts at nine and he arrives a few minutes early to make himself a black drip coffee to get himself through the day. His co-worker on duty today, a cheerful, pretty brunette named Sarah, eyes him sympathetically as he ties the burgundy apron around his hips, and he tries a reassuring smile, though if the way she pats him on the arm in passing is any indication, it doesn’t fool her one bit.

The morning passes with Castiel at the cash register, sleepily ringing in orders and marking cups for Sarah and chugging his own coffee when he has a spare moment. It’s during one such occasion, with his back to the register as he hastily brings his cup to his mouth that he hears a deep, familiar voice behind him.  

“Hey, so I was here last night and this hot guy that was working made me this awesome drink but I have no idea what it was. You think you could help me out?”

Castiel nearly chokes on his coffee, hurriedly swallowing the too-hot mouthful and turning quickly back to the register. Sure enough, Dean is standing there, looking as beautiful as he had last night and—damn him—more chipper than should be allowed for someone Castiel knows likely got just as little sleep as he did.

“Hello Dean.”

Dean grins, leaning easily against the counter. “Hey Cas.” His lip has been patched up, Castiel notes, and his hair has been styled into perfectly gelled spikes. He’s wearing the leather jacket again, although this time it’s open over a brown henley, and the gold talisman still hangs from its cord against his chest. “So how about that drink?”

“Of course.” Castiel rings it up, a half-sweet cinnamon spice latte, and marks the cup, shuffling over to make the drink himself. Sarah eyes him curiously but doesn’t question him as she slides past him to fill in at the register.

“You look a little tired, Cas,” Dean says conversationally. “Late night?”

Castiel pauses with his hand over the pump for the vanilla syrup to level a scowl at Dean, who smirks. “As a matter of fact, it _was_ a late night,” Castiel replies, voice low so that Sarah and the other patrons won’t hear. “I was here until nearly two in the morning sweeping up salt that some ass had poured all over the threshold.”

“Yeah, sorry about that, man,” Dean says, shrugging, though he doesn’t appear to be sorry at all. “At least it kept the demons out, though, right?”

Castiel snorts and is silent for a moment while he foams the milk for the drink. “Did you manage to deal with the _demons_ then?” he asks sarcastically as he pours the milk and spoons foam into the cup.

Dean nods, ignoring Castiel’s disbelief. “Took care of ‘em this morning. We’re heading out this afternoon; just gotta check one last thing before we blow this joint.”

Castiel’s chest tightens with a pang of dismay that he quickly tamps down. He’s not supposed to be attracted to an insane person who virtually held him hostage and told him stories about demons and vampires and all manner of mythical creatures that he supposedly hunts, even if that person happens to be the most interesting, beautiful person he’s met in years.

“So listen, any chance I’m gonna get a phone number on my cup like in some cheesy rom com?”

Castiel looks up at Dean, squinting in confusion, then back down at the paper cup in his hand. “Why would there be a phone number on your cup? Oh—wait. Is that a flirtation?”

“It is if the answer is you writing your phone number on my cup,” Dean replies with a bright grin.

Castiel swallows hard. He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. What does he even know about this man? Certainly, Dean had told him a story about monsters and hunting them with his brother, but what does he know about the man that’s _real_? The answer is that he knows nothing, and Castiel should not give his phone number to someone he knows nothing about, but somehow he finds himself fishing the black felt marker out of his apron pocket and scribbling his cell phone number down on an empty space in the white cardboard.

Dean grins broadly, reaching out to take the drink from Castiel. He raises it in salute before sipping it and licking away the sheen of foam that clings to his upper lip. Castiel stares.

“Thanks man, just as good as yesterday.” Dean smiles, lines creasing the skin around his eyes, his expression warm. He’s beautiful, even more so in the warm afternoon light filtering into the shop, and Castiel can’t help but notice the way the freckles that dot his cheeks and the bridge of his nose stand out in the sun. Dean reaches to rap his knuckles on the counter between them. “I’ll call you, okay? Take care of yourself.”

Castiel nods dumbly. “You too, Dean,” he replies, and Dean turns to stride out of the shop without another word.

* * *

Castiel passes the rest of his shift mechanically, his mind elsewhere as he mindlessly rings up purchases and makes drinks. No matter how he tries to distract himself, his thoughts keep returning to Dean, contemplating the wisdom of giving his real phone number to someone who may very well be a fugitive on the run from the police. He hadn’t come across like someone who likes to cut people up and bury them in the woods, in spite of his insane tales of hunting the supernatural and the salt and the shotgun he’d been carrying last night, but then, most of them didn’t.

He hands the shop over to Kevin to close up, stowing his apron in the narrow locker in the back room and starts his walk home, switching his phone back on as he walks. It buzzes in his hand and he looks down with surprise to find two messages waiting for him.

_so I know party line is 3 days but I just wanted to say hey_

_this is dean btw_

Castiel smiles in spite of himself, and types back a reply. _Hello Dean._

The reply comes quicker than he expects. _hey cas. how was the rest of your shift_

_Tedious. How is the drive so far?_

_same. we’re at a diner gettin some grub and then we’ll be back on the road. got a new case maybe. gonna check it out._

Castiel huffs a laugh. _Demons again?_ he types back, _or something else this time?_

_not sure. sammy thinks maybe a poltergeist but idk seems like maybe it could be something else maybe vengeful spirit we’ll see_

_You deal with poltergeists and vengeful spirits as well as demons and vampires?_

_and werewolves and shapeshifters and yeah. you get the drift. anything that goes bump in the night, you name it, we kill it._

_I’m not sure whether I should lock myself in my apartment and never venture outside again or have you committed._

_lol probably both but that’d be pretty fckn boring for both of us wouldn’t it_

Castiel laughs, glancing down at his phone when it vibrates once more against his palm. _headin out ttyl_

 _Goodbye, Dean_ , he types back and stows the phone in his pocket, walking the rest of the way home with a smile on his face.

* * *

Dean texts him again the next night from the motel room he and Sam are staying in. He says they interviewed the family today and it’s looking more and more like a vengeful spirit they’re dealing with, and that he and Sam are deep into research on its origins and what object it might be tied to. Castiel finds himself switching on his computer, googling along with the information he can glean from Dean’s texts. Sure enough, the strange events that Dean claimed had led him and Sam to believe there was a haunting show up on the website for the town newspaper.

 _Why are you telling me all this?_ Castiel asks him, clicking through the article with misguided interest. _I would have thought you would rather keep a low profile._

_that might be a problem if you believed a single word i’m saying_

Castiel has to concede that he has a point.

His life remains fairly boring over the coming weeks, working his mundane job at the coffee shop and spending his free time staring forlornly at his computer, watching a cursor flash on a blank document. He goes for weekly dinners with Inias and Rachel, but doesn’t have anything to say, always making some excuse when Inias asks him how his writing is coming.

He starts to look forward to texts from Dean with an alarming degree of anticipation, the only break in an otherwise sinfully boring existence. They talk nearly every day that Dean isn’t on a hunt, even if it’s only to check in with one another or for Castiel to regale Dean with the antics of Ed, the young barista who seems to make every day more entertaining. Castiel finds himself telling Dean about his family and in turn gets to hear Dean brag about Sam, the obvious pride, even in his text messages, squeezing Castiel’s chest tight. He hears all about Dean’s car (a 1967 Chevrolet Impala that he maintains himself) and learns that the necklace he’d been wearing was a gift from Sam when they were kids. In turn he finds himself telling Dean about the car he used to have that broke down and was never replaced, and the handmade drawings his sister Hannah used to make for him when she was young. Dean teases him about his neglect of his vehicle and asks about his sister and somehow Castiel winds up falling asleep with his phone in his hand, having texted with Dean long after he should have been asleep.

Castiel still doesn’t believe Dean’s tales and still regularly questions whether he is drunk or high while conversing with him (“ _dude just because I’m drinking doesn’t mean I’m drunk. and doesn’t make it not true”)_ but he finds Dean’s stories entertaining in spite of himself. It’s during one of their conversations while Castiel is on his break from work that he realizes that if he enjoys the stories, others might enjoy them as well, and has to spend the rest of his break frantically typing ideas into the note application on his phone in between texting Dean. Suddenly he has the inspiration he’s been lacking for months, and his empty document at home starts filling up with text. Dean seems amused by his interest and gamely answers all of Castiel’s questions, as long as he promises to change things enough that it’s original because _I don’t want people knowing all this shit about our lives, Cas_.

He’s at his computer, using one of his few evenings off to work on his story, typing away when his phone vibrates on the desk next to him. He’s in the middle of a paragraph so he ignores it, until he realizes that the sound isn’t stopping and he’s actually receiving a phone call, rather than a text.

Castiel fumbles the phone as he brings it to his ear, nearly knocking over the cup of coffee at his elbow as he scrambles for it. “Hello?”

“Hey Cas, it’s Dean.”

“Hello Dean.” Castiel finds himself smiling as he leans back in his desk chair. Dean has been texting him for weeks now but this is the first time they’ve spoken on the phone, and his voice fills Castiel’s chest with warmth. “How are you?”

“Ugh, need a shower. Me n’ Sam just took out a shapeshifter—fuckin’ gross, let me tell you.”

Castiel hums his amusement. “Oh yes, you told me they shed their skins, don’t they.”

Dean makes a disgusted noise. “Yeah, man, but it’s not dry like a lizard, okay, it’s like fuckin’ slippery-ass slime—dude, it’s not funny!” Castiel laughs harder at the disgruntled tone in Dean’s voice, and eventually Dean joins him. “Yeah okay, it’s a little funny.”

“More than a little, I think.”

“Shut up,” Dean replies good-naturedly, still chuckling. “So listen. Me ‘n Sammy just finished up a job and we got some time while we look for the next one… wonderin’ if you might be interested in getting a drink with me.”

Castiel’s stomach tightens in anticipation. “Will you be staying here in town again?”

“I can be.” Castiel can hear the smirk in Dean’s voice. “Guess that depends on your answer.”

Castiel licks his lips, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he thinks. He wants to say yes, if the excitement and interest stirring in his belly are any indication, but the logical side of his brain, which has chosen this moment to make an unwelcome reappearance, disagrees. Talking on the phone or over text message with Dean is one thing, but going on an actual date? “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Yeah okay, I get it,” Dean says, after a short pause, his voice resigned, “See ya, Cas,” which has Castiel panicking, the decidedly illogical part of his brain forcefully overriding the other.

“Dean, wait!” There’s silence on the other end of the line, stretching on for so long that Castiel thinks that Dean did hang up after all. “Dean?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

Castiel swallows hard and blurts, “I changed my mind. Yes, I do want to go for a drink with you. Please, Dean.”

“You sure? ‘Cause I’m still gonna be the crazy guy who thinks he hunts monsters and you’re still gonna be the guy who doesn’t believe me.”

“I don’t think I care,” Castiel replies recklessly and is rewarded with a ringing laugh that makes his stomach twist up into nervous, excited knots.

“Damn, Cas. You’re kinda awesome.” Dean chuckles to himself and Castiel feels his mouth quirk in an answering smile. “What shift you working tomorrow?” Dean asks.

“Closing.”

“Awesome. I’ll get Sammy to drop me off there at the end of your shift? You got bars we can walk to nearby, right?”

Castiel thinks for a moment. He’s rarely had occasion to go to bars, but he thinks he remembers a few a short walk from the shop in the opposite direction from his apartment. “Yes, I think so.”

“Okay, then.” Dean pauses and they wait in pleasurable silence for a few unending seconds, neither one wanting to disconnect the call. Finally it’s Dean that breaks it. “So, uh. Sounds like Sammy’s finally done deep-conditioning his hair or whatever so I better go get the shifter gunk off me. See you tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Castiel repeats, pressing his fingers to his lips, feeling them curve against his hand. “I will see you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Cas.”

“Goodbye, Dean.”

* * *

Castiel’s shift at the shop goes by even slower than usual, the time seeming to crawl by. He finds himself pulling his phone from his apron pocket to check the time with alarming frequency, to the point that Sarah notices and calls him out on it, teasing him and correctly assuming that he has a date tonight. He scowls at her coy remarks for the rest of the evening, but he accepts the kiss she stretches up to plant on his cheek and the luck she wishes him as she leaves at the end of her shift.

The last few hours of his shift are slow, and he spends them mostly restocking the island where they keep the lids and heat sleeves and napkins, cleaning tables and sweeping the floor, all while anxiously checking the time on his phone and nursing the building anticipation for his date with Dean. When nine o’clock finally rolls around, the last customers long ago cleared out, Castiel flips the sign to ‘CLOSED’ but leaves the door unlocked for Dean.

He’s facing away from the door, washing dishes in the sink behind the counter, when the bell above the door jingles. Castiel turns, smiling, a greeting on his lips, excitement to finally be seeing Dean in person for the first time in weeks coiling in his stomach. He freezes, the smile dying on his lips and his brow furrowing in confusion, because it’s not Dean standing before him; it’s a woman, clad in jeans and boots and a leather jacket, red-painted nails playing at the lapels as she studies him from the doorway.

The woman steps forward, a feral grin pulling her generous red mouth wide as she tosses loose fiery hair over her shoulder. The expression in her eyes is lazy and hungry and disdainful all at once, and Castiel takes an involuntary step back before he stops to analyze why.

“I’m sorry, we actually closed at nine,” he tries, though he knows before the words leave his mouth that they’re useless. The woman holds no weapon and she’s very beautiful, but somehow, Castiel is more afraid of her than he ever was of Dean, that first night that he had barged into the shop in much the same manner.

“You think I’m here for _coffee_?” She laughs, the sound low and vibrant and chilling. “Now isn’t that just adorable.”

“Who are you?” Castiel tries next, “What do you want?”

The woman arches one perfectly groomed eyebrow in his direction. “The name’s Abaddon,” she says archly. “And what I want is the Winchesters.”

Castiel has time to open his mouth, the words _I don’t know where they are_ or _they’re not here_ or _I don’t know anyone by that name_ springing to the forefront of his whirring mind, and then the woman is raising one red-clawed hand, and somehow, though she is more than ten feet away from him, Castiel finds himself being thrown through the air, hurtling towards the display case on the far wall. His head cracks into the shelf, ceramic coffee mugs splintering into shards that slice up his hands and arms, and then he’s falling in a heap to the floor, the roaring in his ears taking over until his vision fades to black, and then there is nothing.

* * *

When Castiel comes to he’s tied in one of the chairs, secured with something fabric that he thinks might be his apron, his arms bound tight behind him. There is blood everywhere, trickling from his nose and down the back of his throat, dripping into his eyes and slickening his wrists in their bindings. He blinks hurriedly to clear his vision, ignoring the searing pain in his head and the stinging of his cut-up forearms.

The woman—Abaddon, he remembers dimly—is standing only feet away from him, leaning nonchalantly against the counter and looking through what appears to be his cell phone, amusement on her beautiful, deadly face as she reads.

“Dean wants you to know he’s just pulling into town and he will be here soon,” she tells him without looking up from the phone screen. Her red-lacquered thumb flicks down the screen. “You certainly have got it bad for him, don’t you? Not that I blame you; he’s absolutely beautiful.”

The praise rolling off her tongue, casual and predatory, makes bile rise in Castiel’s throat. He spits a mouthful of his own blood on the floor at her feet. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, ignoring the mild amusement on her face as she straightens and makes her way over to him.

“Why? Because Winchester lead me right to you.” She reaches out and cups his jaw in one hand and he tries to squirm away but her grip is iron. “That night he took refuge here, he managed to incapacitate me but I followed him. I couldn’t do anything, not until now, but I was watching, and I saw you give him your phone number, saw you texting away with him over the past few weeks. I was going to make you call him, get him to come back, but then I see this—” she waves the lit-up screen of his phone in his direction—“and find out he’s already on his way! When he comes to pick you up for your sweet little date, I’ll be waiting. And I’m not letting him get away this time.”

“What are you going to do to him?” Castiel asks, his voice hoarse and wet with his own blood, running sluggish and thick down the back of his throat. His heart hammers in his chest, pulse straining in his tightly-bound wrists, and he hopes desperately that Dean will see the scene through the glass door before he enters and go, just turn around and walk away. There’s no hope for Castiel, not really, but at least Dean will be safe.

Abaddon cocks her head to the side, brushing red locks over her leather-clad shoulder with one hand. She braces her hands against the arms of the chair and leans in towards him, and her breath when she speaks is hot on his face. “You actually care about him, don’t you?”

Castiel stares back at her defiantly, resisting the urge to recoil or to close her eyes against her hungry gaze. He ignores her question and asks instead, “Are you going to kill him?”

She laughs, straightening up and brushing one mockingly affectionate finger against his cheek. He jerks away from her touch, glaring, but it only makes her laugh harder. “No,” she says finally. “I’m not going to kill him. I’m going to _wear_ him. I’m going to slip inside his meat, and together we’re going to rip apart Hell and earth and then when the world is broken and bleeding underneath my boots, we’ll head on up to Heaven, and we’re going to tear that down too.”

Her words make no sense but the relish in her voice makes him want to be sick, and he’s more afraid than he’s been in his entire life. More afraid, and more angry, and more helpless. “You’re not going to hurt him. I won’t let you.”

Abaddon’s mouth twists in amusement, her eyes flicking lazily over him. “Somehow, I’m not exactly quaking in my boots.”

She smiles, and Castiel opens his mouth to say something else inadvisable, but at that moment, the door to the shop explodes inward, shards of glass flying everywhere as Dean and an enormous man that Castiel assumes must be Sam come bursting into the shop. Abaddon whirls, a hungry grin consuming her face, and Sam whips his arm, clear liquid—holy water, Castiel thinks dimly, remembering his conversations with Dean—spraying out over Abaddon’s face. Her skin sizzles and burns and she lets out a feral scream so inhumanly loud that Castiel cries out in pain, his eardrums throbbing and wetness trickling down from his ears and when she flails her head, Castiel sees with shock that her eyes have gone completely black.

The words _black-eyed sons of bitches_ come floating through the cacophony in Dean’s voice from somewhere in Castiel’s memory. He has time to think _ahh, demons_ are _real_ , before Dean himself is skidding to his knees at Castiel’s feet.

“Cas! Cas, you okay?” Dean’s broad palms cup Castiel’s face, just for one brief second, and Castiel gets a flash of wide, concerned green eyes peering into his before Dean is ducking behind him and slashing at the apron binding him to the chair with a knife that appears in his hand.

“I’m fine,” he says quickly, jumping up and rubbing his wrists as soon as his hands are free. “Dean, she said she wanted to _wear_ you but I don’t know what that means—”

Behind Dean, a shot goes off, going wide and missing its target, and Abaddon smashes Sam across the face, sending him sprawling into a table and the pistol in his hand skittering across the floor, out of everyone’s reach. “Sam!” Dean yells and lunges forward, tossing holy water on her from his own flask and slashing at her with the knife. Her skin hisses and sizzles but she’s stopped screaming, her teeth bared as she snarls at him. The knife slices through her outstretched palm and she shrieks, red light flashing from inside the wound like electricity, but then she’s lashing out with her free hand and grabbing Dean around the throat, turning to pin him against the wall.

The knife falls from his hands, clattering to the floor as he struggles for air, pulling fruitlessly at Abaddon’s hands where they circle his throat. His booted feet kick helplessly against empty air as she lifts him up, the snarling grin twisting her lips.

“Dean, Dean,” she says, her voice a slow, dangerous drawl, “what _am_ I going to do with you?”

To Castiel’s astonishment, Dean manages a smile. “Well whatever it is, either do it or shut up,” he wheezes, “‘cause I heard enough of your monologuing last time.”

Abaddon laughs humorlessly, and her hand tightens on Dean’s throat. He’s reduced to wordless gasps, prying desperately at her hand as he struggles for air. Sam is stirring sluggishly but not quick enough to be of any use, and whatever she said before about what she wanted to do to Dean, she’s _killing_ him now, as Castiel watches.

Castiel’s body lurches forward without any further thought, his hand closing around the bloodied handle of the knife at Dean’s feet. He leaps up, thrusting the knife with a frenzied, unskilled stab, feeling the blade push into the flesh of Abaddon’s side. She screams but doesn’t release Dean and then Castiel is being thrown, his body smashed by an invisible force once again, ten feet across the room and into the wall.

Some unseen force holds him pinned to the wall, his struggles rendered completely useless. He can’t do anything, can’t help Dean, can’t even move his fingers. Abaddon laughs at his feeble attempts to break free, the sound terrible in Castiel’s ears, and squeezes her fingers tighter around Dean’s throat.

But while she’s distracted by Castiel, Sam shakes his head to clear it and lurches to his feet, casting his eyes around for the gun he’d dropped. “Sam, by the counter!” Castiel cries out and Sam reacts instantly, lunging for the weapon and coming up with it in his hand, thumb drawing back the hammer. Before he can get the shot off, Abaddon opens her mouth and smoke comes pouring out in a sinuous, tumultuous ribbon of oily black. The body of the red-headed woman goes limp, slumping to the ground in a heap, and Dean drops to his feet, dragging in hungry lungfuls of air and clinging to the wall to keep upright. Sam’s hand drops regretfully to his side, a muscle jumping in his jaw, and they watch as the smoke coils around the room before disappearing out the shattered glass door into the night.

Castiel staggers unsteadily over to the brothers. “Dean, are you all right?”

Dean nods. “What about you, man, you okay? That was some pretty quick thinking there.”

“I’m fine,” he says, and it’s only slightly a lie. He ignores Abaddon’s blood where it stains his fingers, turning instead to look up at the taller Winchester brother. “Hello Sam.”

Sam smiles, dimples appearing in his cheeks. “Hey Cas.” He extends a huge, long-fingered hand which Castiel accepts gravely. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you as well. Although I wish we could have met under slightly less…” Castiel gestures helplessly around the room, “disastrous circumstances.”

Sam huffs a laugh and Dean chuckles. “See, I told you, Sammy.”

“Told him what?” Castiel asks brow furrowing, but Dean just shakes his head and grins.

“So we better clear out of here before she decides to come back or before the cops get here.” He grimaces in Cas’ direction. “Shitty thing about this job is you gotta watch out for monsters _and_ the five-oh.”

Castiel’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline in disbelief. “ _That’s_ the ‘shitty thing’ about this job?” He makes quotation marks in the air on either side of his head with crooked fingers. “Not the nearly getting strangled or being thrown across rooms by demons?”

“Nope.” Dean smirks. “That’s the fun part.” Castiel stares at him while Sam rolls his eyes in the manner of long-suffering brother but Dean ignores the look that passes between them. “C’mon, Cas. We’ll take you home.”

“What about—” Castiel cuts himself off, gesturing wordlessly towards the body of the red-headed woman lying crumpled where the demon had left it. The smirk falls from Dean’s face, twisting into something like pain and sorrow and disgust, and Sam turns sad eyes towards Castiel.

“She’s already dead,” Sam says softly. “There’s nothing we can do for her now. Abaddon will be back for her any minute.”

“Yeah, and I’d rather we not be around when that happens,” Dean says harshly, his own feelings buried behind a stoic mask. “We gotta go.”

They pile into the shiny black car that Castiel had seen the first time they’d met, which the Winchesters had parked down the street out of sight. On the way to Castiel’s apartment, Dean explains how Sam had been about to drop him off at the shop when they’d seen what was going on through the window. “Good job getting her talking,” Dean says proudly, his bravado returned. “Bought us the element of surprise when we came in guns blazing.”

“What did she mean when she said she wanted to ‘wear’ you?” Castiel asks.

Dean’s jaw tenses, the movement just barely visible to Castiel from his position in the back seat, and it’s Sam who answers. “She meant she wanted to possess him, Cas,” he says quietly. “Like she was doing to that poor dead woman she left behind in the shop.”

Castiel swallows hard, a shiver racing up his spine.

The car rumbles to a stop outside of Castiel’s apartment building, and Castiel unbuckles his seatbelt and sides out, Dean climbing out of the driver’s seat after him. “Hey, is it, uh.” He looks a little nervous which is frankly ridiculous considering what they’d just endured. “Is it okay if I come up with you? I don’t wanna leave you alone with her on the loose, especially since she knows who you are and probably where you live, too. I could send Sam if you want—”

Castiel reaches to curl his fingers around Dean’s wrist and Dean’s mouth closes with an audible snap. “Dean, it’s all right. You can come with me.”

He nods shortly and ducks his head into the car for a hurried conversation with Sam, who gets out and crosses around the car to get in on the driver’s side and pull away from the curb, leaving Dean and Castiel standing awkwardly alone together on the sidewalk.

“Sooo…” Dean says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Right.” Castiel fishes in his pocket for his keys and leads Dean upstairs.

* * *

Dean insists that Castiel take the first shower, which he does while Dean wards the apartment, drawing lines of salt and devil’s traps at the doors and windows. Castiel turns the water up as hot as he can stand, hoping the heat will ease some of the soreness already starting to permeate his body. He winces as he scrubs his arms and shampoos his hair, his fingers awakening the stinging pain from the gashes all over him.

Afterwards he wipes away the steam on the mirror and stares at his naked body, taking in the impressive array of bruises littered across his body, stretching this way and that to take stock of his hurts. He thinks his entire right side will be black and blue come tomorrow, and the area above his left eye is already swelling and darkening impressively, but all in all, he thinks it could have been much worse. He’ll be sore for a few days, maybe a week, but soon it will all be nothing more than a memory, a nightmare of black eyes and earsplitting screams to wake from in a cold sweat in the middle of the night.

Castiel dresses gingerly in grey sweatpants and a navy blue t-shirt and treads softly back out into the kitchen where Dean is sitting at the little round table, staring broodingly down at the floor. He smiles when he sees Castiel and squeezes his shoulder with one broad hand as he passes him on the way to the shower, but the warmth doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s a marked difference from the cheerful, flirtatious man he’d gotten to know, from the cocky, adrenaline-drunk hunter who just barely escaped a Knight of Hell less than an hour before.

It’s already nearly midnight but Castiel doesn’t see himself sleeping anytime soon so he brews a pot of coffee while he waits for Dean, sipping from his favorite chipped blue mug as he leans against the counter. He’s surprised at himself, waiting for the inevitable panic attack when it hits him that demons are real, and he’d very nearly been killed by one this evening. And if demons are real, then all the other things Dean professes to hunt are likely real too, ghouls and shape-shifters and werewolves and vampires and Castiel isn’t sure how he’s _ever_ supposed to sleep with this knowledge rattling around his consciousness.

And then there’s Dean himself—Dean who had been there for a date and instead had to come to his rescue, and had almost been strangled or _possessed_ by Abaddon in front of Castiel’s eyes. And now Dean is here in Castiel’s apartment and neither of them are dead, and he’s not quite sure what the meaning of anything is anymore, let alone this. They never did get their date, but that knowledge seems trivial in the face of what they had just experienced, and Castiel can still feel Dean’s hands on his face, his touch like water to a dying man in the desert.

At some point the shower shuts off in the bathroom and Dean wanders out in fresh jeans and a t-shirt from the army-green duffel bag of his, his hair damp from the shower and his cuts cleaned and patched up. There’s bruising around his neck over the collar of his t-shirt from Abaddon’s hands and Castiel, looking up at Dean as he steps back into the kitchen, wants to soothe them with his own hands, to erase them with his lips.

Dean takes one look at Castiel and drops his bag on the floor in the kitchen doorway, crossing to Castiel and pulling him into a tight embrace, burying his face in the crook of Castiel’s neck. Bewildered, Castiel lets himself be held, curling his hands into the fabric of Dean’s shirt at his back and holding on tightly, relishing the solid warmth of Dean against his chest, strong arms curled around him.

Eventually Dean speaks, his words spoken into the flesh of Castiel’s neck. “I’m so sorry Cas. I’m so fucking sorry. This was all my fault.”

“What?” Castiel says, genuinely bewildered. “Dean what are you talking about?”

Dean’s fingers tighten convulsively against Castiel’s back, and he turns his head to press a regretful kiss to the underside of Castiel’s jaw, the touch lighting Castiel up from the inside. Too soon, Dean pulls away to look down at him, his eyes wide and filled with fear and regret and self-loathing before it’s hidden away behind a blank, unfeeling mask. He’s clearly worked himself into quite the state since they got to the apartment, left alone too long with his thoughts.

“I was the one who dragged you into this. I almost got you killed, man.” Dean’s hands, still around Castiel’s waist twitch like he wants to cling tighter or push himself away or maybe both. “I led her right to you and then she almost killed you to get to me and Sam.” A choked-off sound twists itself free of Dean’s throat. “I fuckin’ break everything I touch.”

“Dean, how could you think that? It wasn’t your fault,” Castiel insists, his chest squeezing tight. “You couldn’t have known she would have come after me. And I’m all right, now. You saved me.”

Dean chuckles humorlessly, his mouth twisting bitterly around the sound. “Are you kidding? You were the one who saved _my_ ass, man. And she hurt you.” He untangles one arm, his hand coming up to drift feather-light over the bruising and the cut above Castiel’s eye.

“I’ll be fine,” Castiel promises, leaning into the touch of Dean’s palm when it drags down to cup Castiel’s jaw. “Under the circumstances, I think we should be glad that we all got away as easily as we did. And I’m sorry for not believing you, Dean. About demons and—” he waves a hand vaguely—“everything.”

Dean laughs again, this time a little more genuine. “I wouldn’t have believed me either.” He smiles regretfully, thumb brushing absently over Castiel’s stubbled cheek. “Some first date, huh? I really know how to charm ‘em.”

“Well to be fair, you did manage to invite yourself up to my apartment,” Castiel muses, his lips curling into a rueful smile. He turns into Dean’s palm, pressing a kiss to the rough skin at the heel of his hand. Dean’s breath catches in his throat, the hand still resting at the small of Castiel’s back tightening into a fist around a handful of Castiel’s t-shirt.

“Cas,” Dean says breathlessly and it sounds like a benediction, the name wrenched from Dean’s mouth. His eyes bore into Castiel’s, the mask slipping away to reveal that fear and need and a desperate loneliness that slices through to Castiel’s core.

Castiel’s hands come up to cup the back of Dean’s neck, thumbs pressed gently against the sharp angle of his jaw, and he tugs Dean down and into a kiss, eyes sliding shut as their lips finally meet. Dean makes a sound like a dying man, his lips parting against Castiel’s and Castiel drinks in the sound, pulling Dean in tighter, reassuring him of his want and his wholeness with the press of his body. Castiel’s heart thunders in his chest as Dean kisses back, the movement of his lips soft and hungry and desperate all at once, the hand at the small of his back drawing him in closer, the hand on his face sliding up to fist in his hair at the back of his head.

The only sound in the empty room is their broken pants and desperate, choked-off moans, and when Castiel feels the hard line of Dean’s erection rocking against his own, he guides Dean to his bedroom, leading him backwards down the hall, reluctant to let go. He presses Dean down onto the bed, crawling over his body to straddle his hips and tugging his shirt over his head, ignoring the protesting twinge of pain at the motion.

Castiel tries to lean back in, to seal his lips to Dean’s again, but he’s stopped by Dean’s hands on his shoulders, the pained expression in his eyes. Castiel cocks his head, puzzled, and Dean licks his lips apprehensively, big hands skating down over Castiel’s bare chest to slide gingerly over his bruised ribs.

“I’ll be fine,” Castiel says again, softly, nudging a crooked finger under Dean’s chin until he looks up to meet Castiel’s eyes. “I promise I’ll be fine. Dean, please.” Dean closes his eyes, a muscle twitching tightly in his jaw, so Castiel covers Dean’s hands with his own and pulls them back around his waist, bending down to lick back into Dean’s mouth, fingers combing gently through Dean’s still-damp hair.

He feels the moment Dean gives in and lets whatever worries are still plaguing him go when his body relaxes into the bed, hands sliding tighter over Castiel’s back and pulling him down closer, deeper. A needy, desperate moan escapes his mouth and Castiel licks it up, sucking on Dean’s full bottom lip and trailing kisses over his stubbled chin and across his jaw to the sensitive flesh of his throat. He’s thought about this for weeks, wanted it, wanted _Dean_ ever since that first night, and now he’s finally here and they both almost died today and Castiel can only be grateful, the desperation of their brush with death making him fierce and hungry.

Dean’s body is beautiful and golden, sprinkled with freckles and striped with scars, and Castiel tastes every inch he can reach until Dean whimpers and begs him _please Cas, need you_. Castiel reaches for the lube and a condom from the bedside table and works himself open on his fingers, writhing in Dean’s lap and thrusting back against his own hand. He leans into the sucking, biting kisses Dean presses to his chest, tongue sliding over Castiel’s collar bones and nipples and the hollow at the base of his throat.

When he sinks down onto Dean, the world seems to slow, narrowing down to the point where they are joined, Dean’s cock stretching him wide and filling him. Dean trembles, the muscles of his stomach tight beneath Castiel’s palms as he holds valiantly still, waiting, until Castiel adjusts and starts to move, grinding down in Dean’s lap, rocking his hips to take more of him. They press together as close as they can be, hands clutching at sheets and at each other, toes digging into the mattress as Dean thrusts up into Castiel and Castiel pushes back to meet him. Their movements start off slow but don’t stay that way and soon they are devouring each other with hands and mouths, Castiel fucking back hard on Dean’s cock, sucking possessive, needy marks into the taut flesh of Dean’s neck. They fill the bedroom with their needy cries and moans, whispered words spilled against lips and skin.

When Castiel reaches between them to touch himself, Dean bats his hand away and circles Castiel’s erection with his own broad hand, stroking him fast and sure. He comes over Dean’s fist, his own fingers pressing bruises into Dean’s shoulders and Dean’s name falling from his lips, and Dean kisses him through it, following him over the edge only minutes later after a few more desperate thrusts.

“Cas,” Dean breathes afterwards, his eyes tightly closed and his nose dragging over the stubbled line of Castiel’s jaw, and Castiel’s heart wrenches at the sound.

He cups Dean’s face and pulls him into a kiss, and when he pulls back he says, “I’m glad I met you, Dean Winchester.”

Dean chuckles, the sound a little wet and regretful, but he opens his eyes and manages a smirk. “You’re just saying that ‘cause you just had the best fucking of your life.” Castiel rolls his eyes which only makes Dean laugh again, and this time his smile actually reaches his eyes, his expression warming. “Go to sleep, Cas,” he says. “Maybe if you’re not too sore tomorrow you can return the favor before—” he falls silent and Castiel thinks he was going to say _before I have to leave_. He doesn’t finish the sentence, choosing instead to lean in and kiss Castiel again, and Castiel can’t help but be grateful. Tomorrow they will worry about _after_ , about things like leaving and being left behind.

Tonight, Castiel just wants to hold Dean and be held and to have him, even if it’s just for now.

* * *

Castiel wakes the next morning to the tinny cell phone ringtone imitation of a rock song and a faint buzzing from somewhere near his bed. His groan of protest is muffled into the pillow as the miles of warm skin he’s pressed against draw away, cold slipping into the little cocoon of blankets as Dean scrambles out of bed to dig his phone out of his jeans.

“Yeah?” Dean says into the phone, his voice husky with sleep as he sits back down on the bed. “Hey Sammy. Yeah I’m still at Cas’.” He falls silent, his shoulders growing tense as he listens to his brother’s voice on the other end of the line. “I don’t know, Sammy. Of course I’ve been thinking about it.” A pause. “Don’t you think it’d be better if—” Sam interrupts him again and Castiel can hear the indistinguishable mumblings of his voice if not the words. From his vantage point, Castiel can only see one side of Dean’s face and it’s tense, his mouth drawn into a tight line as he listens to his brother’s speech.

Castiel disentangles his arm from the blanket and slides a hand up the smooth curve of Dean’s back, the warm muscles tight under his palm. Dean turns and gives him a genuine smile, the lines of tension easing slightly as he looks down at him and twists to curve his free hand around Castiel’s bare hip, thumb stroking idly.

“Yeah okay, Sammy, I’ll ask him,” Dean says finally, and Castiel knows they’re speaking of him. “Either way we gotta clear out of here soon before Abaddon gets her shit together and before the cops come a-knockin’. Yeah. Okay.” Dean pulls the phone away from his ear and taps the end call button with his thumb, tossing the phone carelessly back on the bedside table before crawling back under the blankets and wrapping himself tightly around Castiel.

“Hello,” Castiel says, amused, when Dean has his head tucked under Castiel’s jaw, arms curled tightly around his waist and their legs hooked together. Dean replies with a muffled “hey”, and Castiel feels Dean’s mouth curl into a smile against his neck, followed by a gentle kiss. Castiel smiles in response and lets his fingers trail teasingly up and down the warm expanse of Dean’s back, breathing in the smell of his hair where it tickles along his jaw.

“What was that about?” Castiel asks eventually, and Dean sighs.

“Sam wanted to know what, uh. What you were going to do.”

Castiel blinks, his brow furrowing in confusion. “I don’t understand. What _I’m_ going to do?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, and he worms himself loose enough that he can look up at Castiel. “Sam thinks you need to come with us,” he says baldly, and Castiel feels something shake loose inside him, something hopeful and fearful all at once. “He thinks Abaddon’s gonna hold a grudge and that she’ll go after you again if we leave you here, especially since she knows I’ll come back for you if you’re in danger.” He laughs humorlessly, his expression darkening.

“What do you think?” Castiel asks slowly.

Dean swallows, his brow furrowing, jaw tight. “I thought at first that you’d be better off if we left you, if you didn’t have to deal with our bullshit. But I gotta admit Sam’s probably right; much as I hate that you got sucked into this, you’re not safe on your own anymore. Not that you’ll be all that safe _with_ us either, but it’d be better than leaving you to deal with her by yourself.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“‘Course you have a choice,” Dean says quickly. “And if you wanna stay we’ll give you stuff to keep her out, and I’ll keep an eye out or whatever.”

Castiel is silent for a moment, contemplating. “And what do you want?”

Dean huffs humorlessly. “I want to go back in time and never run into that damn coffee shop, man. I want to take it all back and make it so you never met me so you’d be safe.”

Castiel takes Dean’s jaw in his hand, tugging until Dean meets his gaze. “I don’t want that. No matter what else happens, I meant what I said yesterday. I’m glad I met you.” His life up until he met Dean had been easy, ordered, predictable, but it had also been lonely and empty and mind-numbingly boring. He has never known anything but this sedate existence, and maybe it’s crazy to consider dropping everything and running off with a man he hardly knows, but when it comes down to it, he knows what he will choose.

There’s only one thing he still needs to know, before he makes that choice. “Dean,” he says, his thumb stroking over Dean’s lips, “do you _want_ me come with you? I won’t be a burden and I don’t want you to feel beholden to me. Just because we’ve been intimate, or you feel you owe me something for what happened with Abaddon, doesn’t mean you need to put up with me for the foreseeable future. I don’t want to go with you unless you want me, too.”

“I—” Dean takes a sharp breath as Castiel’s words catch up to him. “Wait, ‘too’? You want me?”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Yes, Dean. I’ve been saying that since yesterday.” He swallows, eyes boring into Dean’s. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid, but I’d rather be afraid and with you then afraid and left behind.”

“You sure about that, Cas? Because I can be a real dick when I’m running on three hours of sleep and I drink too much and I kill things for a living and that’ll be your life too and—”

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel interrupts, cutting him off. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Dean swallows hard. “ _Yes_. Fuck me, yeah I do.”

“All right then,” Castiel says.

“Okay.”

There’s a moment where they are staring across the pillow at each other, eyes wide, breaths held, and then Dean’s lunging forward, sealing their lips together, tongue working into Castiel’s mouth to lick up against his teeth. Castiel’s body protests the sudden attack, his aches and bruises making themselves known, but he pushes them aside to return the kiss with equal fervor, hands fisting tight in Dean’s hair.

This time, Castiel works Dean open and slides into him from behind, both of them kneeling on the bed, back to chest, Dean clutching the headboard with one white-knuckled hand and twisting the other one behind him to curl tight around the back of Castiel’s neck. They kiss sloppily as they fuck, Castiel’s hands wandering hungrily over Dean’s chest and stomach and down to stroke his erection.

“Yeah Cas— _fuck_ —need you,” Dean groans, pushing back so that Castiel will thrust into him harder, then rocking forward into the circle of Castiel’s fist in a jagged rhythm. When he comes, Dean wails Castiel’s name, the sound dragging Castiel’s climax right out of him in turn. They fall limply down on their sides in the bed and when Castiel can move again, he presses his lips to the back of Dean’s neck, trailing kisses from his hairline all the way down to the curve of his shoulder.

“I like you very much, Dean,” Castiel confesses between soft kisses, and Dean doesn’t reply, but the kiss he twists around to give Castiel is answer enough.

* * *

Several hours later after a shared shower that takes significantly longer than necessary when slippery, naked skin turns to groping, turns to reciprocal blowjobs, Dean calls Sam, who shows up with tape and boxes. They pack up as much of Castiel’s apartment as they can and move it into storage for safe-keeping, and Castiel packs a bag full of his clothes and a few books and his laptop.

Sam and Dean carry his things down to the car while Castiel takes one last look around the apartment and what he’s leaving behind. Truth be told there’s nothing left here for him but second-hand furniture and musty carpet. Inias knows he’s going on a trip, and to reach him by cell phone or email, and Castiel has told him he will be travelling for work, which isn’t a lie so much as a stretch of the truth. Castiel wants to write about their hunts from a new perspective now that he knows they are real. He’ll email Hannah from the road, and Dean has already mentioned that they can visit her at school if a hunt brings them nearby.

He’ll miss his coffee maker. But that’s probably it.

“Hey, you okay?”

Castiel turns to smile at Dean where he’s peering around the open door. “Yes, thank you Dean. I’m ready to go now.”

“Okay.” Dean holds out a hand and Castiel slips his fingers through the spaces between Dean’s. “I know it’s crazy, picking up and leaving your life behind, and I still think you're nuts for wanting to come with me, but look at it this way: at least you won’t have to worry about explaining what the hell happened at the shop during your shift.”

Castiel huffs a laugh and leans in to kiss the grin off of Dean’s face. “Let’s go, Dean,” he says, and lets the hunter lead him out of the apartment and down to the Impala.


End file.
